


You Remind Me of the California Sun

by TheMipstaz



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Bottom Niall, Explicit Sexual Content, First Meetings, Happy Ending, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 09:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: Niall is very familiar with what-ifs.What if he never blew his knee out playing football as a kid? What if he never picked up a guitar to kill time while bed-ridden and recovering? What if he never fell in love with the callouses on his fingers and the way melodies fit so nicely in his mouth? What if he never lost his mind and decided to travel 8000 kilometers away from home to Los fucking Angeles?





	You Remind Me of the California Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here.](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/164086497310/non-famous-ziall-road-trip-au-wc-12k-rating-e)
> 
> Title from [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4upL8hZSvZg)

Niall is very familiar with what-ifs. 

What if he never blew his knee out playing football as a kid? What if he never picked up a guitar to kill time while bed-ridden and recovering? What if he never fell in love with the callouses on his fingers and the way melodies fit so nicely in his mouth? What if he never lost his mind and decided to travel 8000 kilometers away from home to Los fucking Angeles? 

These are the what-ifs that haunt his dreams, swell his heart until it’s fit to burst, and make up who he is at the end of the day: a ratty kid with a guitar case and a backpack splitting at the seams walking purposefully along a Californian highway. 

However, when he isn’t chasing the occasional musical pipe dream in America, Niall considers himself fairly rational.

Back home, he was always the one to temper Louis’ elaborate pranks to keep them on the right side of the law—for the most part. He slung a bracing arm across Liam’s shoulders when Liam’s terribly earnest and romantic date plans went awry. He nodded solemnly along when Harry meticulously explained his 3-month long juice cleanse, but never failed to have his door unlocked when Harry inevitably stormed in a week or so in to bemoan his poor life choice. 

But Niall’s latest what-if—perhaps his greatest what-if—blows all that cool, calm, collected rationality out of the water. 

Zayn Malik tends to do that to people.

Zayn incites something wild in Niall, a craving for adventure and spontaneity that Niall has never let himself indulge in before. He doesn’t know if it’s Zayn’s elegant tattoos spiraling over his skin or the sweet, smoky texture of his voice when he asks, “You need a ride?” 

Whatever it is, it coaxes Niall into loosening his iron grip on control and nodding tentatively even though hitchhiking in a foreign country with a complete stranger is a God-awful idea at best. But Niall just hitches his backpack higher up onto his shoulder, takes comfort in the almost-familiar accent softening the syllables, and says, “You going anywhere near LA?” 

Zayn leans over to pry open the truck passenger door, and that’s that. 

Niall never really had the corybantic, YA-novel-turned-blockbuster-esque teenage years most people romanticize. Instead, he kept his head down, studied hard in sixth form to learn pretentious words like corybantic, and stayed on track despite Louis’ best attempts to pull him away. But Niall figures he must’ve been saving up those years worth of recklessness for the moment he met Zayn. 

Zayn is every heartbreaker Niall never had all rolled into one. Externally, he’s obviously the bad boy, the ruggedly handsome bloke Niall would’ve admired from afar but never dared to speak to. The cigarette dangling from his lips only completes the look, wind sweeping the smoke out of the window as quickly as Zayn can puff it out. 

But then they hit a particularly rough bump. The glove compartment pops open, and Niall catches sight of the CDs piled in it. At Zayn’s nod, Niall rifles through and laughs at the ridiculous titles scribbled over the mixes: For Days You Embody Sinatra, Doniya’s Sick Ass Playlist, The Best Texas BBQ. Niall pops in T-Swizzle’s GH and grins broadly when Zayn belts out the opening lines to  _Bad Blood_. Niall rolls down his window, turns up the volume, and joins in when he can cobble together the half-forgotten lyrics. 

The badass veneer blows away as easily as Zayn’s dropped cigarette butt. Suddenly Zayn is the dorky boy next door who knows too many Taylor Swift lyrics, the kind of boy Niall would’ve loved to bring home to his parents. His ma would’ve pinched Zayn’s cheeks, while his dad would’ve nodded at the satisfactory handshake. Niall watches the hard edges of Zayn’s face soften, eyes crinkling at the corner, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, thumb tapping the steering wheel as they coast down the road. The transformation doesn’t jar Niall as much as he thinks it should. The Zayn that soulfully croons out  _Desperado_  somehow still fits within the initial Zayn that drew Niall in with his gleaming piercings and sultry gaze. 

After they work their way through eclectic mixes named Long Hot Summer Nights and Dancing Naked in the Moonlight, Niall lets the last track fade. “I’m on my way to LA,” he says, carefully ejecting the CD and placing it back in its case, “where’re you headed?” 

“Nowhere really,” Zayn says with an easy shrug. 

Niall raises an eyebrow. “Nowhere?” 

“M’not really driving with a destination in mind,” Zayn says. “I just like the road, like my music, like the people I meet along the way.” 

Niall looks out the window to hide a private smile. 

“A bit of a wanderer, I am. But I reckon,” muses Zayn, “that I’ll know when I’ve reached where I’m meant to be. Haven’t found it yet, but it’ll just feel right. Or something.” 

“Or something,” Niall echoes, not quite convinced but content to leave it be. The philosophy seems to have worked for Zayn so far. 

Later that night—when they find a motel to spend the night in, when Niall wakes up to an empty room and finds Zayn outside lighting up on the eggshell blue truck hood, when Zayn leans in and presses a smoke-sweet kiss to Niall’s waiting lips, when Niall drags Zayn back inside and down onto the mattress with him—Niall wonders if this is  _something_  enough for Zayn. 

He wonders if Zayn is looking for something that makes sweat drip down his temple, that has him panting against Niall’s neck. Something that causes him to shudder and his eyelashes to flutter. He wonders if Zayn has found it in the way his hands drag through Niall’s hair or the scrape of his beard against Niall’s cheeks. 

Niall clutches frantically at his broad shoulders, fingers digging into inked skin like they never want to let go. He gasps and moans and swears at the way their bodies move together, finding a heady rhythm of slick skin and bunching muscle. Niall swallows down Zayn’s sweet sounds until his chest feels so full it could collapse. He doesn’t think he imagines the reverent look in Zayn’s eyes as clever fingers trail over his ribs, brush his hips, wrap around his dick. 

Niall simultaneously wants more and wants this moment frozen in time. He wants Zayn’s tongue tracing his collarbone, wants the hot press of their flush hips, wants the stretch of Zayn’s dick. But he also can’t help but dread that it’s all going to end as certainly as it’s started. 

It won’t last forever. Zayn will eventually sigh and gingerly pull out. He’ll toss out the condom and wrap an arm around Niall’s waist. 

And Niall will be okay. 

He’ll lace fingers with Zayn’s hand resting over his stomach. He’ll listen to Zayn’s breathing even out and study the silhouette of his guitar case leaning against the wall. He’ll think about Zayn’s affinity for freedom and decide that even if tonight wasn’t Zayn’s  _something_ , it was Niall’s. 

The next day, they’ll arrive in the city of angels. Zayn will lean over for an achingly sweet kiss. Niall will push as much of the emotional mess in his chest into the kiss as possible for safekeeping before clambering out and shutting the passenger side door. He’ll admire the miles-high palm trees and shield his eyes against the sun as the truck trundles away. 

He’ll find what he’s looking for, somehow, amongst the mess of vegan eateries and trendy boba shops and overpriced ice cream parlors that infest LA. 

And maybe, in a year or two, after he’s had time to release an EP and find his feet, Niall will be found too. By an eggshell blue pick up truck, windows rolled down to properly saturate the air with T-Swizzle’s Greatest Hits. 


End file.
